Believe in Salvation
by bootsontheground
Summary: Emily isn't surprised when Mother sends her away to a reform school. She just wishes it wasn't in the States. That it wasn't so close to him. How is she supposed to get better when he's around the corner, coming to destroy her again- like clockwork. TRIGGER WARNING for abuse. (Hotchniss endgame) (Some crossover with characters from the Guardian- maybe more in the future)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: **Warning**! I've lost my mojo for this one and have only written like eight chapter that vary dramatically in length and fit together somehow in a way I'm still trying to figure out. And the plot is really long and convoluted and I'm just not sure of it anymore. God, I feel like such a bad writer right now. I just really want to publish this unfinished piece cuz I was really proud of it and then I just stopped writing it. I'll probably take it up again eventually so don't lose faith.

Oh, and _**MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING **_for this story. It deals with abuse in many forms (at times explicit), inappropriate language, underage drinking, and the horror of run on/badly grammared sentences (sorry, humor is my coping mechanism). -boots

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.

…

Emily knew it would happen eventually, so she wasn't all that surprised when she exited the police station to find one of the Ambassador's interns nervously shifting, from foot to foot, next to a cab. They always sent a cab to pick her up, because God forbid the media see an embassy vehicle picking up a criminal.

"Boarding school, Annie?" Emily plucked the coffee from the girl's sweaty fingers.

"Amy." The blonde squeaked nervously. None of the interns liked being put on Emily-duty, seeing her as just another spoiled wild child with deviant tendencies. "It really is more of a reform school."

"Ha." Emily shook her head bitterly. "I was sure the bitch would send me to some military discipline camp or something."

Amy winced at her language. "She wanted me to inform you that any behavioral issues will now be dealt with by Senator Strach." Emily swallowed a burning sip of coffee.

Emily let out a shallow breath. Shaky hands rubbed her face and cleared her eyes of crusties. "She's sending me to the States?"

"The States, yes."

Emily let out a half-hearted groan. A sad laugh escaped from behind her fingers. "She really is done with me."

Amy looked away.

"Where's my shit?" The teen peered in at the cabbie before climbing onto the dull, stained seats, nodding at him with a quick "_bom dia _[good morning]".

"I packed your things. The Ambassador asked for you to be taken to the airport straight away."

Emily smiled at the young woman. "Very efficient, Amy. Good job." She sighed and sat back. "If you get your nervousness in check, the Ambassador will take you more seriously."

Amy glanced at her briefly. "Thank you."

Emily closed her eyes. She had been hoping that once it happened- once the Ambassador finally got tired and sent her away- that she would at least tell her herself, or drop her off herself, or do something herself. _Snap out of it, Emily. A Prentiss never gives way to weakness. Heavens knows you've done it enough lately._

…


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _** TRIGGER WARNING **_for inappropriate language, mentions of struggles with mental illness, and mentions of suicide (not explicit). If I missed anything my sincerest apologies. -boots

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.

…

'**Credi nella salvezza senza ragione se non te stesso' **was the phrase carved into a wooden plaque above the front door. They were standing in front of a modest house, having been led to it by a sign right of the security gate urging visitors to check-in here.

The building itself wasn't as institution-like as she expected and instead gave off a homey feel. It even had a quaint porch up front and a sweet woman in a rocking chair peeling apple after apple. Mr.- FriendOfYourMom had tried to talk to her but she seemed very much in the apple-peeling zone.

Mr. FriendOfYourMom glanced at Emily conspicuously. "Kret...kredi… neal... nilla... sal...vezzar…oh this is tough…um..." _Kill. Me. Now._

"Credi nella salvezza. It means 'you believe in salvation'." The man's voice was tearing her nerves to pieces. "It means… the full translation is 'believe in salvation for no reason but yourself'."

"Ohhh! Well, isn't that interesting." He grinned at her. "Such beautiful, inspirational words. You are so lucky to being going to this school. I hear they're very well-respected. I searched them up myself. Nothing but the best for Elizabeth's daughter. You must know a lot of languages. Elizabeth knows a lot of languages. What language is-"

Emily hesitated. "Italian." She slammed her thumb against the doorbell impatiently. _Mr.-FriendOfYourMom needs to shut the hell up before I-_

"You look just like Elizabeth, you know that? Beautiful just like her."

Emily's face turned to gape at him. _What in God's name is your obsession- Oh no, don't tell me! Him and the Ambassador! Disgusting. Although, he must be great in bed cuz that voice is just absolutely…wait… Did he just hit on me?!_

Thankfully the door opened before she could shred the Ambassador's bedwarmer into tiny, unsalvageable pieces. Behind the door was a sharply Italian man in his late 50s dressed in a sauce-splattered apron with the words "I don't need a recipe, I'm Italian!" written on it in bold, red and green letters with borders of white.

"Just in time! You must be Miss Prentiss and Mr. Cobbs. I just finished making my famous spaghetti and garlic bread!" The man ushered them inside, calling out for two more dishes to be put on the table.

"Oh no, sir, I can't!" Mr. FriendOfYourMom turned at that. "I've got to be going. It's been a pleasure meeting you."

"But you haven't tried my spaghetti!"

"I'll try next time I come around." _You honestly think you're gonna be coming here again?!_

"Alright, next time." And Mr. FriendOfYourMom was gone. _Thank Heavens._

Then ApronMan turned to Emily and flashed a fond smile at her. "I'm David Rossi. I run Carolyn's Home. You can call me Dave, David, or Rossi."

Eyebrow raises. "So, anything?"

"Nope." Rossi sighed. "I learned pretty early on that I can't say 'anything'. That word turns even the most precious kids into little rascals that want to see how far they can pluck your nerves."

He led her down a softly carpeted hallway and into a spacious dining room. It had dark brown, laminate wood flooring with very light peach paint covering the walls. In the middle was a strangely shaped table. It was a rectangle on either end but ballooned in the middle. It was a horribly ugly merge between an oval and a rectangle, painted a dark, pumpkin orange color.

The bustle of children was what Emily noticed next. The ages ranged from short-and-looks-like-a-toddler-but-speaks-like-a-college-professor and straight-laced college-student-doing-taxes-for-fun. Most of the chattering was back-and-forth between a brightly colored, plump girl, that was no doubt around Emily's age, and a younger, cuter boy who slightly resembled Chicken Little with his scruffy light brown hair and large, round rimmed glasses. Small bits of their conversation floated to her ears and Emily realized they were discussing the accuracies in a piece of Doctor Who merchandise.

The first to notice Emily walk in was a short, athletic-looking blonde. The girl nudged the color spectrum sitting next to her who then announced her presence to the entire room with a squeal/screech.

"You are perfect! OMG it has been too long since we got someone new!" She made to go hug her but- _thank the heavens_\- a muscly teenager behind her reached over and whispered in her ear.

Speaking aloud, the boy motioned to an empty chair next to one of the table's heads. "Your spot's over there." He gave her a onceover. "I'm Derek, this is Penelope." A lifetime of training told Emily that this Derek was not happy to see her but was obliged by his own manners to remain polite.

"Thanks." She took her seat, ignoring the whispering that the two blondes had begun between themselves. Beside them Chicken Little looked confused as to what was so important as to interrupt his serious conversation.

Glaring hungrily at the food from the corner of her eye, Emily looked at the others to find them staring straight at her. "Yes?"

"What're you here for?" It was the Derek kid again.

Emily saw Rossi's back tense from where he was bent over a small table at the other side of the room. She remained silent, gauging the environment and the ways of the kids around her.

"I thought you were some politician's kid, shouldn't you be more polite?" He was an aggressive type. She had barely said a word and the guy was already hounding her. _And how the hell does he know who my parents are?!_

"Fuck off." She could be aggressive too. Nobody was allowed to walk all over a Prentiss.

Rossi's head shot up and he turned around. His laid-back smile turned into a grim, disapproving frown. "That sort of language isn't okay here, Emily. And Derek, check yourself."

"So that's your name! Sounds pretentious." The other teen seemed to ignore Rossi's last sentence.

_Pretentious sounds pretentious. _Rossi's eyes met hers and she deduced a plea for patience. She looked blankly back at him. "Fuck off, shithead."

"Kind words are better words, Emily. Please meet me in the kitchen." He stopped at the doorway and turned back to see her, unmoving. "Now."

Reluctantly, Emily rose from her seat and followed him into the attached room. Rossi was standing at the end of the kitchen, next to an opaque window that spanned the majority of the wall. He was blowing on a spoon with a crumbly, light brown piece of food on it. He turned to face Emily.

The frown that he had had on his face had faded. He now looked more concentrated, but, as his eyes fell onto Emily, disapproval was still apparent in his gaze. "Do you use that language often at home?"

Emily blanked. At home there was no one to talk to and therefore no one to cuss to. So, the actual answer would be no. But she cussed a lot when she spoke. Even in front of her mother. Including the last time they saw each they each other. _3 weeks ago. Briefly in the kitchen as she was warming some milk at 1 am. I had just gotten home, drunk. And I went to the kitchen to steal an entire cheesecake I knew was for the dinner tomorrow with Senator Strach's campaign advisor. She was standing there in a white turtleneck and black pajamas waiting for the milk to warm. She saw me out of the corner of her eye. She instinctually turned. She grimaced when she saw it was me. She could smell the stench of alcohol and her nose wrinkled. She turned back to her milk. And what did I say: "how the fuck you sleep in that shit? I sleep in the nude." Emily Prentiss does not sleep in the nude. Why the hell would I say that?!_

Rossi shook his head. "I'm assuming that's a no, considering that I've met your father and he isn't for that language."

"I don't live with him."

Not to be deterred, Rossi continued. "I've met your mother too."

"Real bitch, ain't she?"

Rossi blew a bit more on the food on his spoon and then ate it. He seemed to contemplate the taste before speaking again. "Language, such as that, hides what you're truly saying. People won't take what you say seriously, if _you_ do not take what you say seriously." _Sure shit, sensei._ He opened the oven and, with mittens on, he removed a peach cobbler from the heat. "Looks delicious doesn't it? It's my own recipe." He set it on the stove top and put the exhaust on low.

Emily stood silently and watched him preen at his creation. "I lived in Italy for 8 months." _Why the fuck would you bring that up?! You utter idiot!_

The chef stood taller and glanced back at her. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Briefly, Emily wasn't sure whether he was speaking of the cobbler or Italy.

She spoke with hesitance. "I suppose."

"You didn't like it." Rossi stated, his voice clean of judgement. One would think such a sharply Italian man would be more defensive about the country.

"After a while, I didn't."

"Derek is very protective of his family. And he considers this group as family. They're called 'the profilers' around here, because they've been here so long, they can read a new kid like it's their job. And it doesn't help that I write crime novels in my spare time. This is the long-term group. Anyone in it, stays for at least a year. Some will be here until they're legally adults. He's been surrounded by these people since he was twelve, and the spot you are filling at that table is of a girl who was very dear to him and the rest of the group. He sees you as an outsider. I'll talk to him, but I want you to recognize that it will take some time for him to warm up to you."

"What happened to the girl?"

Rossi sighed. "You'll find out anyway, so…" He shakily swallowed. "Elle committed suicide." His eyes closed momentarily, and she could see the grief on his skin, grimy and cold. "She was battling her demons, and she lost the battle."

_No wonder the muscle-dude's bitchy. I wonder what made her kill herself? _"Where you close?"

Rossi smiled. "Not as much as the others. She was in this group, so I knew her. But she didn't do salvation sessions with the others. She did individual sessions with Gideon; he deals with the ones whose cuts are deeper than I can go." He sighed again, deeper and more freeing this time. "It doesn't matter though, because you don't need to have heart-to-hearts to care very deeply for someone. And she may have lost that battle, but she won so many others before that."

Emily watched as he turned back to the cobbler. _Are all the conversations in this hell hole gonna be deep and dramatic? Honestly, haven't these people heard about small talk?! Way to tell a stranger all your shit. He probably thinks I'm going to spill my guts to him if he shares. My lips are sealed. He's gonna have to try harder than that._

A deep voice called out from the doorway. "The spaghetti is getting cold. Will you be joining us?" The voice belonged to a tall, clean boy. He had dark, combed hair that flopped slightly on his forehead, and he wore a black, long-sleeved polo atop light brown trousers. A chunky, men's watch adorned his left wrist and a torn newspaper crossword was tucked in his right pocket. He looked so manly; nothing like a boy. He was- quite literally- tall, dark, and handsome. Emily bit her lip to prevent a grin when her eyes were treated to the sight of the boy's Spiderman ankle socks.

"We'll be out in a second, Aaron." Rossi's pupils twinkled with amusement as he caught the look Emily had in her eyes.

"_È un bravo ragazzo. È anche un pignolo per le regole. Che è buono. Sono sempre stato un fan della ribellione, ma non penso che questo sia il posto migliore per farlo. Ti suggerisco di tenere sotto controllo l'anarchia qui, Emily. I tuoi genitori hanno insistito sul fatto che ogni tuo problema dovesse essere segnalato a tuo padre._ [He's a good kid. He's also a stickler for the rules. Which is good. I've always been a fan of rebellion, but I don't think this is the best place for it. I suggest you keep a lid on the anarchy here, Emily. Your parents insisted that any trouble you get in be reported to your father]." The language switch was sudden, but Emily was quick to catch on; he didn't want Aaron to hear him.

She didn't want to hear him either. "_Non credo nell'anarchia, signor Rossi; Credo nella libertà e nella responsabilità._ [I don't believe in anarchy, Mr. Rossi; I believe in freedom and responsibility]." With those words, she smiled at Aaron, openly leering at him as she brushed past him.

Rossi sighed. The new girl was going to be a difficult one.

…


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Enjoy. -boots

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.

…

After dinner, Penelope's whispering buddy, JJ, showed Emily to her new living space. The room was large enough to fit three twin beds in a row comfortably; JJ pointed out the one next to the door to be hers and the middle one, filled with stuffed animals and decorative pillows, to be Penelope's. Emily let her pleasure at having the bed by the window show, flashing JJ a quick smile, with even a bit of teeth. At the foot of the beds were small khaki colored drawers with dark blue cushions on top, transforming them into small benches. On the other side of the room, a tall closet wardrobe sat on a thin rug next to a decently sized table. JJ showed her inside the wardrobe and pointed out the sectioned off space for her to hang her clothes. Emily could see why her mother approved this particular reform school to send her to; it was quite decently funded.

Emily went to bed late, having crawled out the window and perched- overlooking a lovely view of the backyard- on the back roof to smoke a cigarette. She sat there until footsteps and voices began to make their way up the hall and into the other rooms, and then she disposed of any evidence and snuck back in. She fell asleep long after lights out had been called and JJ was whistle-snoring through her nose and Penelope was muttering about cute butts in her sleep. But that was fine for Emily; sleep had never been plentiful for her. 

* * *

It was early when the shout came from downstairs. Apparently, the newcomer had a call. Emily rose from the bed in a zombie-like state, slumping down the stairs in her boxers and t-shirt- vaguely remembering she couldn't go downstairs in a sports bra- until she reached the kitchen. Rossi looked at her bemusedly before handing her the phone, which oddly enough was corded.

"This is Emily. To whom am I speaking with?" She answered on autopilot.

"Your mother informed me that you arrived yesterday. I assume you have no good reason for not having called me, except for being a brainless imbecile, as usual."

Emily stood straighter, pulling at her clothes before she remembered he couldn't see her. "Hi, Dad." She said.

The terse voice echoed through the phone. "I have a special guest coming over, I expect you to be ready in fifteen minutes. Anthony will be there at exactly then. The traffic isn't heavy considering the early hour, so if you make him late coming back, you will have to apologize to him as well."

Emily paled. Anthony was needlessly mean. He was probably listening and was going to make them late just so she would have to 'apologize'.

"I suggest you get off the phone now and get ready! If my guest complains about the way you look, you'll be doing it a second time until you get it right."

"Yes, Da-"

He hung up the phone.

…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'm not sure if I wanna post this chapter, but I am. _**TRIGGER WARNING** for semi-explicit description of child sexual abuse_.

This chapter has introduces Nick form the Guardian. For those who have never watched the show, some background: His mother, Anne, died of cancer when he was a child (I don't remember the exact age, I think he was in his preteen years) after his parent's divorce. Afterwards, his father sent him to boarding schools instead of caring for him himself. The show has him at the age of thirty, as a recovering cocaine addict working at his father's law firm, while also completing court-mandated volunteer hours as a child advocate for a non-profit law firm for children. I hope you enjoy it. -boots

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or the Guardian.

…

***TRIGGER WARNING***

The hands were running down her clothed body in such a way that it made no difference that he wasn't actually touching her skin. The fingers caressing her burned her through the fabric of her sweater and through her flesh until the flaming touch blackened her bones. Emily breathed in and out, fighting each rebellious instinct inside her in order to stay as still as she possibly could. Sometimes it helped, to bring her out of the newest scene Dad was directing in her life, if she pretended that she was fighting an actual battle- with swords and armor and a vanquish-able enemy- against her fighting instincts; it made it easier to drift away from the groping fingers that poked and prodded and squeezed her like a goat for auction or like one of the Senator's maids.

Unfortunately, she hadn't discovered a good way to make the kisses any easier. The kisses sucked the breath from her lungs, and no matter how much she inhaled through her nose, it felt as if they had become permanently deflated.

Some were gentle, and soft; light feathery kisses she imagined were intended for a lover, but instead were peppered onto _her_ lips and _her_ neck. They were the ones that weighed the heaviest on her skin and would return to smother her in her sleep in the form of the lips of her father sealed tightly against her own, preventing any air from coming through.

And still, there were more, less gentle kisses; a never-ending conveyor belt of greedy lips, swollen with entitlement, that would bite and pull at her face like leeches. Every limo ride ended with her lips bleeding, whether it be because of her own teeth ripping at the tender flesh, or someone else's.

The Associate Commissioner for the Children's Bureau knocked thrice on the sliding window that separated them from the limo driver.

"Are you sure, sir? We have plenty of time." And they did, Senator Strach had given the Associate Commissioner three hours to ride in his limo and get to know his wonderful daughter, Emily.

"Eh…" He seemed to consider it briefly, but then growled slightly as his eyes fell on the briefcase beside him. "Unfortunately, I had not anticipated the Senator's generosity," the way he said the word made Emily's stomach lurch, "and have a previous engagement I cannot be late to."

"Such a pity, sir. Where shall I take you?" Anthony's stale voice carried in again.

As he rattled off the address, he pulled out his phone and began scrolling through his email. Emily felt tears prick her eyes and an overwhelming sense of shame crept into her chest. She desperately squeezed her eyes shut as she felt his cold fingers absentmindedly stroke the hair at the nape of her neck. A pause in movement let her catch a quick breath and for a moment she thought the ordeal was over because the limo had slipped to a stop. Emily peeled open her eyes and tried to discern the shapes outside the tinted limo window.

But he didn't leave just yet. The old man smiled down at her and gestured to his cheek with a finger. "Give your old friend a kiss, kiddo."

Emily responded by dragging her nails across the soft flesh of his cheeks until blood surfaced. The old man howled in pain, and Emily enjoyed the few moments of pleasurable revenge before a hand wrapped around her neck and lifted her off the bastard. She clawed at the fingers with bloody nails, only to hear the dull voice of the limo driver telling her to settle down right before her head slammed into the expensively carpeted floor of the limo.

Emily groaned in pain, Anthony's hand still around her neck and pressing her face into the carpet. She heard an enraged growl right before a pointed shoe slammed into her ribs. Dad was going to be upset tonight.

***END Trigger Warning***

* * *

_"I have this dream. In it, I'm laying down in bed, about to go to sleep. And then, my dad appears in my room. He walks to the side of my bed and starts to tuck me in, just like normal dads do. And I remember just being really happy because he's tucking me in. I tell him I'm not sleepy at all and he laughs and says that if I close my eyes I'll fall asleep eventually, and that I have school tomorrow, so I should close my eyes now." She pauses and looks down at her hands. "So, I close my eyes. And then, I feel him leaning down to kiss me goodnight, just like normal dads do. But he doesn't kiss me on the forehead or on the cheek; he kisses me on the lips. His lips are pressed so hard on mine it's like they're sealed together and there's no air coming in. I can't breathe, so I open my eyes and he's right there above me. His eyes are open and staring into mine and even though he's kissing me, he's somehow scolding me for opening my eyes when he told me to close them. And I just stare at him, crying cuz I can't breathe, and he just keeps kissing me until I wake up."_

* * *

Nick buttoned his shirt carefully and slowly. One button through a hole. Another button through a hole. Slow. Steady. Each button perfectly slid in. Nick sighed as he finished with the last button. Maybe if he went through the front door, instead of the back door, he would bump into Garcia coming back from the lab or Morgan going to the gym and maybe Garcia would insist on accompanying him or Morgan would tell him to live and make him skip and play football or something with him.

Maybe. Maybe.

Nick closed his eyes and prayed to his mother's God. "Oh my Lord, let this day be simple, and let only good fortune befall me today. Amen." He said it clearly, making sure not to mumble. Spencer, his roommate stared at him from his bed.

"Are you praying?" Spencer was only a year younger than him, but he didn't know about some things that Nick had previously thought to be common knowledge. That wasn't to say he was stupid; Spencer was smart, but mostly just about old history stuff and STEM stuff. He just wasn't very good with people knowledge.

"Yes." Nick straightened his starched collar in the mirror, waiting for the inevitable follow-up question.

"Why?"

"So nothing bad will happen."

A moment to contemplate the answer. "But you can't stop something bad from happening by praying. That doesn't make sense."

Nick blinked in the mirror. "I have to go. I can't answer your questions right now. I'm busy."

Nick didn't wait for Spencer's reply and walked briskly out of the room and into the hall. Oh, how he would so like to slow down and drag out the minutes. But Nick was raised to walk with purpose, and his mother would be very disappointed if she looked down from heaven and saw her son dragging his feet, so Nick continued walking briskly. He was expecting to see Mr. Rossi silently drinking coffee on the porch, but there was no sign of the house's caretaker this morning. Although another person may have been alarmed due to this uncharacteristic absence, Nick walked on stoically.

Spencer's mom was sitting in her rocking chair already. Today she was cutting the apples she had peeled on Friday and cored on Saturday. Thankfully the weather was chilly enough that Ms. Reid, in her wool sweater, did not have to deal with bugs, but still be warm enough to enjoy her rocking chair and the fresh air. For a brief second Nick stopped next to Ms. Reid, seeing if she would notice him. She had been responding well to her new medication, but she was having these odd periods of zoning in on things and not letting go. No one except Spencer could draw her away from these zones long enough for her to eat and drink. And even then, she'd be chomping at the bit to go back to the apples or whatever fascination she had taken up.

Ms. Reid continued with her task, so Nick began to move again. He mentally listed Ms. Reid and Spencer in his list of things he should pray for. He could see the chimney of the Interfaith Center in the distance and he struggled to keep his breathing even. His lungs struggled, and he gulped in air. It must be because the sun is out and I'm walking fast, he told himself.

The blond boy walked faster, feeling beads of sweat run over his neck and chest. Faster and faster, his legs hurt, and the dulled rays of the sun felt unbearable on his skin. And then, in the brief moment that Nick let his eyes close, he felt a rush of air and a painful tug at his foot. He was falling. Hot tendrils of pain curled around his left ankle and his knees. He gasped for air, frozen, lying in the itchy, moist grass.

Nick's foot had snagged on a loose rock on the walkway. He twisted his foot this way and that; it didn't hurt, it just throbbed a bit. The boy sighed and moved to get up, bracing himself on the ground. His hands sunk deeper into the earth. It was mud. His lungs constricted again. Nick looked down at himself and noticed the wet mud splattered over his crisp white shirt and his perfect baby blue buttons coated in the ugly, brown slosh. Don't cry, he told himself. You're a man. Men don't cry over things like this. Men only cry at funerals and only for politeness' sake. The tears ran down his face and Nick closed his eyes. What would Dad think of him now? His clothes were ruined, and he was crying. And Mom would be so upset because he was gonna be late to church. Stupid boy.

"Nick?" A clear, deep voice cut through his anxiety. The muddy boy lifted his tear-blurred eyes and lo' and behold Mr. Rossi's Long-Term Unit's Chief (aka the Chief) was standing before him. LTU Chief Aaron Hotchner towered over him, a stern frown on his face, clothes impeccable- starched and ironed to perfection- with his hand outstretched, holding a rumpled napkin.

"Yes, Chief?" Nick scrambled to his feet, gingerly taking the napkin to wipe his palms.

The older boy let an amused smile briefly paint his face for a few moments. "You can call me Hotch, Nick." His eyes took in the scene of the young teen and the mud caking his clothes and limbs. "You don't seem the type to enjoy playing in the mud, Fallin." He checked his watch. "And you've missed the beginning of Mass." Everyone in the LTU knew the Fallin kid went to Mass early every Sunday, mostly because it would always lead to Spencer rambling into a religious commentary during every Sunday breakfast.

Nick looked down, ashamed and expecting to be told off. He stared miserably at his stained shoes that were polished perfectly just a few moments ago.

"Are you okay, Nick?"

The blond boy stayed silent, unsure what the correct answer was to such a broad question. Of course, he wasn't okay- he was covered in mud and obviously had been crying. But the Uni- Hotch wouldn't want to hear him complaining about something that was his own fault. He was, after all, the one who was walking with his eyes closed.

Hotch eyed the boy. He had come upon him crying in the mud while on his way to see where Dave had disappeared to. He had figured the boy to have either slipped onto the mud or fallen in while playing. But now he suspected something truly to be wrong, more than just mud on a boy. The Fallin kid had never been particularly chatty. He had once or twice in the beginning of his stay gotten verbally and physically aggressive, but after a couple of weeks even that had disappeared, and the rich kid's opinions became non-existent. "I'm looking for Dave, have you seen him?"

"No."

Hotch flashed him a dimpled smile, wanting to put the boy at ease. "Maybe he finally overdosed on that ridiculous Hawaiian coffee of his." He stepped forward and took the soiled napkin from Nick. "You should come with me. Two sets of eyes are better than one."

Nick looked nervously at the Interfaith Center. "I need to go to Mass. Dave is usually at Mass too."

Aaron shook his head. "Dave goes to Mass after he goes to the AC. Since he isn't on the porch with Ms. Reid, something's shifted his routine. I think we should check the AC out, and if he's not there, I think we should go by his office."

Nick didn't know what to do. Should he follow orders and help Hotch or should he go to Mass, all alone? "I… I don't think I'd be much help, Chief." He glanced at the Interfaith Center again and saw a barely distinguishable figure on the front steps. The figure was wearing an open, brown windbreaker atop a black shirt with the customary white collar of a Catholic priest. The figure stood, with his back to the grey building, staring at him from the distance.

"I'm sure Father Doyle will understand."

Nick felt a surge of anger in his chest. No, Father Doyle wouldn't understand. Father Doyle never understood anything! Why couldn't Hotch see that he needed to be at church?! "I'm sorry, Hotch, but I should really go." Nick shook each leg of as much mud as he could and began towards the grey building.

Hotch felt a queasiness in his gut. Instinct was telling him not to let Nick out of his sight until he could talk to Dave about the boy's behavior. "It's just… everyone else is asleep and I knew you wanted to make Youth Chief this January, so I figured a little experience would give you a little leg up."

Nick froze. Becoming Youth Chief meant being a shoo-in for LTU Chief when the time came. And Nick wanted to be LTU Chief. It was like being Class President at a regular school, or like being Head Boy at one of his more pretentious boarding schools, like Irvington's School for Impressionable Gentlemen. Nick knew his father had wanted him to be Junior Head Boy at Irvington's, so he'd tried his hardest. But Rufus Charles Bertram the Third had his friends rig the ballot in the most obvious way, having everyone in the school vote only for him, and so he'd cracked the boy's head open on the marble sink in the bathroom when the Headmaster's only consequence had been to make Rufus promise not to do it again.

Nick remembered the look on his father's face when the Headmaster had spit at him that his son was no longer welcome at Irvington's because he was "a sore loser that wants to make a mountain out of a mole hill over a miniscule prank, simply because he doesn't wish to acknowledge the fact that his patheticness wouldn't have allowed him to win anyway". What he remembered most distinctly was wishing his father would stand up for him. But Burton Fallin simply joined in the disappointed and disgusted frowning of the other adults in the room.

"Hurry before you miss it, Nick. I'll be going, I've got things to discuss with Dave."

Nick jerked to attention. "Wait, Chief!" He ran back to the mud puddle he had fallen into and stopped a few feet from Aaron. "I can do it."

Hotch smiled briefly before patting the boy on the shoulder. "Thanks for the help, Nick. Come on, let's take the long route through the Rec Center. There's too much mud outside."

…


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: __**TRIGGER WARNING** for underage drinking, mentions of attempted murder, alcoholism, inappropriate language, death idealization, and mentions of suicide.

Enjoy guys. I'm actually really proud of this chapter. -boots

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.

…

"One for my baby." She threw back a shot. "And one for the road." She grabbed the bottle. "And one for the old bastard." She raised the bottle to the clear night sky. "To family- what a lovely institution."

"Emily!" A little blonde head popped out from the nearest window. "What are you doing?!"

"Shhh!" Emily hissed. "Are you trying to get me caught?"

JJ seemed to consider this before rolling her eyes. "Can I have some?" She asked, crawling out onto the roof.

The older girl's eyes softened. "No, this is all for me." She wasn't gonna have the guilt of a little girl's relapse hanging on her head on top of all her other shit.

"Oh, come on!"

"JJ." The deep voice had the blonde scrambling down from the roof.

"Aaron!" She squealed, standing guiltily in front of the tall boy.

"Are you having cravings, JJ?" He asked, gently.

"Yeah." A deep blush peppered her skin.

"Then we can deal with them. But relapsing, after all the work you've put in, is not the way to go." With that he turned to the figure still on the roof. "There watching Captain America; Winter Soldier now, JJ. Go watch, we'll talk more later."

Emily sighed quietly as she heard the girl scamper down the stairs.

"Emily." Hotch leaned out of the window. "Get down from there."

The brunette turned to him and smiled lecherously. "Make me." Another swig from the bottle.

Hotch glared at her. He wanted to rip her down from the roof as hard as he could for tempting JJ, but he knew that wouldn't fly well with Rossi or Gideon. "Drinking isn't allowed, considering its illegal for minors."

"Not in Italy."

"This isn't Italy."

"Isn't it?"

Hotch rolled his eyes. She was a lot drunker than he thought. "Where did you get the alcohol?"

Emily drained the bottle, sighing as she discarded it on the ledge and pulled another one out of her bag. "You know, I visited my Dad today."

Her companion pursed his lips. So that's why she was drinking. "I assume you're not fond of him."

"In Italy the legal age is… 16, I think."

"Emily-"

"How do you want to die?"

Hotch blinked. "Is that a threat?"

She laughed. "No, it's just a question."

"I haven't given it much thought."

She unscrewed the bottle cap. "I have."

Hotch watched some of the liquid dribbled down her neck. She drunk a lot like his father did; like the objective was not to get drunk but to drown. "You need to get inside, Emily. You don't want to fall off the side of the building."

She huffed. "You're right, party pooper. I don't want to die that way." She smiled tightly. "I wanna die in a hail of bullets. A bazillion bullet holes all over my body. Blood everywhere. It'll be near impossible to identify my body the usual way, but they won't have to because they'll know who I was by eyewitness reports and camera footage." She leaned towards him, bracing herself on the windowsill. "It'll be in the newspapers. Woman dies in hail of bullets. Body identified as Emily fucking Prentiss!" She blew a tiny puff of air, watching his hair as it rustled. "I won't be the wild child that meets an inevitable death, or the poor Ambassador's daughter that has left her grieving- so young! I will be Emily fucking Prentiss! The hail of bullets lady." She closed her eyes. "Just Emily fucking Prentiss. Nobody else. No daughter, no friend, no nothin'. Just me. Emily fucking Prentiss." She wobbled for a moment before catching herself.

Hotch swallowed. He didn't like Emily, but he was more polite than Morgan and wasn't about to say it to the girl's face. Right now, though, he felt the nauseatic feeling of understanding in his stomach. And he didn't like it. "Come on, Emily." He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into the room. She didn't resist as much as he'd expected. Instead, she seemed to shrink and, as he let go of her, she slinked down to the carpet and leaned back against the side of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, and the new bottle clutched to her side.

"Emily. I need to know where you got the alcohol."

"Maybe I brought it with me." She spoke in a teasing whisper.

"I know you didn't. They check your things for anything illegal when you first come in." He hummed lightly. "Did you get it during the visit with your father?"

Emily looked up at him, eyes glazed slightly and lips no longer smiling. "Who was your father? What type of man created you? I can picture the woman, but I can't picture the man." She sipped at the bottle. "What dick made you a non-dick?"

Hotch felt himself scowl. _A man like you. That drank and cussed and was so vulgar he made me want to vomit._ He wrinkled his nose. _And smoked like he was trying to win the prize of cancer on purpose._ The sympathy that had layered his gut began to evaporate.

Emily didn't seem to notice his disgust. "I wish people didn't know my parents. That strangers would have to wonder who created me, instead of just vaguely knowing. No one's curious about me. They think they know what I am and they either stay to prod at the bushes or leave."

"Stay here for the rest of the night; get as sober as you can. Tomorrow, I'll need you to throw away all of the alcohol you have left." Hotch waited for Emily to protest or ignore him, but instead she nodded and leaned back into the mattress.

Aaron considered taking the bottle but decided to let her put it aside herself. He made it to the door before Emily spoke again. Her voice was steady and sober- a clear contradiction to her wobbly fingers and uneasy eyes.

"I almost did it today. He was asleep. He has some health issues, so he takes sleeping pills. He wouldn't have woken until I had near finished probably." In the reflection of her bedside mirror, Aaron could see a lazy smile curve her lips. "I was this close, Hotchner. I've dreamt of the moment since I was seven, and today I was this close."

"Okay, I'll bite. What did you almost do?"

"Kill my father."

Aaron froze where he stood, halfway out the doorway.

"I was holding my switchblade- holding it against his Adam's apple. I nicked it enough to draw a hint of blood. I watched it ooze up and then I dragged it along the rest of his neck. He woke up with a lot of red scratches on him." She inhaled. "It felt like I think sex is supposed to feel like. Like unadulterated sinful pleasure. I thought I was gonna wet myself… I almost did it. So close." She let out a little giggle and then curled up on the carpet beside her, still clutching the bottle.

"You're drunk, Emily."

"Am I?" She mumbled.

"I have to tell Rossi what you just said."

"What's stopping you?"

"He'll have to call the police… if this is true."

"And how will they know it's true?"

Aaron grit his teeth. "This isn't a joke, Emily."

"Who says I'm joking?" She rubbed her eyes. "I almost killed my father. I eventually will kill my father. But _you_ cannot prove that."

The sound of laughter and squealing rose from downstairs, along with the slight press of footsteps on the stairs. "Emily? Aaron? You both up there?"

"We're here." Aaron watched Gideon stride down the hall. One look at the boy's face, and the counselor's perpetual frown deepened.

"Everything alright?"

Hotch didn't know what say.

"It's okay." He squeezed the teen's shoulder and gestured downstairs. "Next movie's starting."

Hotch moved to leave but paused. "She says she almost murdered her father yesterday in his sleep. She says one day she'll actually do it."

Gideon nodded. "I'll talk to her, you go."

The older man entered the room slowly. Emily was still curled on one side of her bed, clutching her liquor, and staring out of the window at the night sky. Gideon walked to the other side of the bed.

"May I?"

A nod.

Gideon sat down on Emily's pale blue blanket. "Whatcha drinkin'?"

"Tequila."

"Where did you get it?"

"Dad's house."

"Did he give it to you?"

"No. I stole it."

"Should I tell him?"

"You're an adult- make your own choices." She spoke much more soberly now.

Gideon stared at her. "Aaron said you confessed to almost killing your father."

"Hotchner's an interesting boy."

"That he is."

"His father's an alcoholic."

"He told you that?"

"No. He's pretty easy to read. I disgust him."

"What about what he said about you wanting to kill your father?"

"Totally true."

"Emily, are you thinking of hurting yourself?"

"Bite me."

"I think you are."

"But do you _know_? That's the million-dollar question."

Gideon reached over and gently pulled the bottle from her arms. "I also think you're self-medicating for whatever problem that's going on with you right now." He tightened the bottle cap. "You're here to get better. So, please, Emily- work with me. Why do you want to kill your father?"

Emily didn't reply. She just pushed her knees further into herself and squeezed her eyes shut.

"He won't go away, Emily. And killing him won't make him disappear either."

"Says who?!" She hissed.

"You're a smart woman. You know him dead won't solve whatever problem your having with him."

"Yes, it fucking will."

Gideon quieted.

For more than an hour they sat there, watching the night sky darken and the moon become clearer in the distance. They could hear laughter and shouting from the movie night downstairs. Garcia, JJ, and Morgan had gone from peaceful fangirling and fanboying, to shipping random objects. By the time Gideon rose to his feet, they could hear the kids rushing to the bathrooms to pee before the next movie started.

"You should join them."

She shook her head, too tired to speak.

"I understand." He took the little blue blanket from her bed and crouched down beside her. "We're going to talk tomorrow." She was still clutching her legs, so he draped the blanket across her knees and tucked the top corners behind her shoulders. "Get some sleep." He closed the door as he left, leaving the room dark with only the moon and a nightlight for light. Emily stayed awake far into the night, only falling asleep- slumped against the side of her bed- a few minutes before the children peppered up the stairs, already in their pajamas, brushing their teeth quickly before rushing to bed. JJ and Penelope covered her a little bit more with their own little blue blankets before falling off to sleep.

…


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: **TRIGGER WARNING** for underage drinking, inappropriate language, theft, and my own half-assed attempt at a conversation between two counselors.

Happy reading. Or not. Whatever floats your boat. -boots

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds.

…

"Emily. Emily. Wake up, Emily. We gotta go to school."

Emily groaned as the squeaky voice grabbed at her brain. "School?"

"Yeah," JJ said, "it's Monday."

Emily opened her eyes. The young girl was leaning over her, brow furrowed.

"Are you hungover?"

Emily wobbled to her feet. "No shit."

"Our school starts at a reasonable time though, so that's a perk."

"Huh? What time is it?" She pressed her palms to her shirt, sluggishly smoothing out the wrinkles.

"7:30 am. School starts in an hour, so feel free to lollygag."

The sunlight was pouring in from the window and spearing her eyes. Emily stumbled over to the wardrobe and grabbed a black bomber jacket. She stripped off her shirt, fingered her sports bra but left it on, and shrugged on the jacket, letting it hang open.

JJ sighed and stopped Emily before she could slump downstairs. "Dave likes us to be clothed." She zipped up the jacket before Emily could shrug her away. "Come on, Hotch and Dave made pancakes."

Before Emily had even reached the bottom of the stairs, her head was screeching at her to go hide in a cool, dark cupboard. Excusing herself to the bathroom, she ran upstairs and ducked back into the bedroom. Reaching under her bed, she pulled out an almost empty bottle of tequila. "Bottoms up." She whispered and chugged the last few gulps.

Slightly less sober than before, she grabbed one of Penelope's numerous gas station sunglasses from the top of her trunk and made her way downstairs.

* * *

The weather was surprisingly sweet. The sun was going around kissing everything that it could reach, and the clouds made cute fluffy shapes in the sky. Not to say it was hot- no, it was a warm day but also a breezy day. Nearly every class was taken outside. Even Emily was enjoying herself. Nothing could get better than debating the death of Edgar Allan Poe while sitting on the most naturally green grass she'd seen.

When lessons ended, Rossi let them stay outside for lunch and opened the game shed as his wife, Erin, passed out picnic blankets and sandwiches.

After everyone had gotten situated and Morgan had started challenging the others to a game of football, Gideon and Rossi ducked back into the house, leaving Aaron, Erin, and Father Ian in charge. Emily watched as they went, waiting a couple minutes before excusing herself into the house.

"The drinking has to stop. It's a stressor for the others."

"I'd say for some of them it's a good thing. Puts them in a position we're they have to reassert their sobriety."

"Agree, but not all of them are ready." Dave rose in his chair. Emily slunk back, ready to flee until she realized he was headed towards the lemonade. "You want a glass?"

"Yeah, sure." Gideon mumbled, deep in thought. "She's not trying to hide it though. It's almost blatant."

"Classic attention seeking." Rossi replied, handing his colleague a glass. "But where is she getting the booze in the first place?"

Gideon pursed his lips. "Her father took her for two visits already."

"I've met him. He seems stricter than that."

"I asked her…last Sunday."

"And she actually answered?"

"Surprisingly. I had expected her to brush me off."

"Huh." Rossi quirked a brow. "Are you gonna tell me what she said?"

"Are you gonna ask?" Gideon smiled back at him. "She said she stole it."

"I don't peg her for a stickyfinger."

"She did brush me off though when I asked her whether I should tell her father."

"She doesn't care for him?"

"Or cares too much? Anger perhaps, taking the form of faux indifference."

"She seems to have taken a shine to Aaron."

Gideon sighed. "Perhaps it would be better to limit their interaction."

"How so?" Rossi thought she might be exactly what Hotchner needed.

The patter of running feet sounded from upstairs. Gideon motioned to the ceiling. "The kids are in early." As if as an answer to his implicit question, the clink of rain suddenly began banging on the roof in a torrent. "Time to get the boardgames."

Rossi groaned as he got up. "I think Emily may be good for Hotch."

"But is he good for Emily?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

Gideon refilled his glass. "He's disciplined. He can't help his judgement of her. She reminds him to much of his father, and he can't hide that. She's been disciplined all her life. Manners, dress, speech, looks- life. Everything was controlled, by her mother, father, essentially everyone she's met. She needs to know freedom is possible without being this level of chaos and disfunction. He won't be able to handle that. And it won't be good for him to try to."

Rossi sighed. He loved his friend greatly, but he lacked a certain level of trust sometimes. "What do you mean by that?"

"Hotch is the opposite. He's had so much chaos and disfunction he can handle at this point. He's finally achieved a routine, a disciplined organized manner of living that helps him juggle his schoolwork, Jack, Haley, Sean, and himself. He's the poster boy for function and recovery." Gideon sighed. "She would dramatically set him back."

Emily moved quickly and quietly back up the stairs, closing the basement door behind her.

"He's a little bit too stuck in his routine. He's still a kid; he needs to loosen up and enjoy the world." Rossi argued. "They could be great for each other."

"Or they could sink each other like the Titanic."

"Dramatic much, Jason?"

Gideon shrugged, smiling at him. "C'mon, the kids are probably getting antsy." He handed Rossi a stack of board games and they made their way upstairs. Emily played a hardy game of chess with Reid before excusing herself to her room; it was time for an adjustment plan.

…


End file.
